


Your Heart On My Skin

by stravaganza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (from the tatooing), Blood, Description of wounds, Ink, M/M, Needles, Scars, Self Confidence Issues, Tattoos, but it's nothing graphic really, cover-up tattoo, mentions of war nightmares, tattooing, tattooing machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5937819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But the tattoo would help. He was sure. Already when Audrey had begun carefully tracing on his skin the outline of it with the cap of a marker, to test his sensitivity, he had felt himself relax. As if covering his scar up could actually make it go away.<br/>Who knew. Perhaps."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Heart On My Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vanetti (lereya)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lereya/gifts).



> Lame titles are lame.  
> I've never had a tattoo before, so this is highly improvised.  
> I just described a tattoo design for John to vanetti, she made me do it. And I threw some Jolto in it because, why the hell not? We need way more Jolto out here, folks.  
> Also, it was a great way to procrastinate on work.  
> Any mistake is mine, written in about an hour and a half, so there are bound to be some (also it is now 6am).  
> Enjoy!

John had spent so long in the tattooing chair that he didn’t think he could ever get the buzzing sound of the ink machine out of his head.

He had sat there for six hours at the very least, long enough that he had become numb beneath the drilling needles digging into his skin, planting  small seeds of colour into the pink, raw skin of his scarred shoulder.

There were many breaks, of course - water to stay hydrated, careful wiping of the excess ink and blood pooling where the skin wasn’t all dead tissue and ugly marks, moments to walk a bit and stretch himself to prevent his muscles from getting stiff - but it had still felt like an eternity. Yet John did not regret it. Not even the burning of his irritated flesh, the unscratchable itch that was made of subtle pain as his body slowly regained sensitivity and the ants crawling under his skin died out one by one.

He groaned a bit when his ink was wrapped up in soft bandages and cellophane, nodding at the creams the tattoo artist recommended him to use and thanking her for her nearly restless work.

“It was a pleasure,” she said in reply with a bright smile, “it was a gorgeous design. I just wish you’d have listened to me and had it done in two sessions. Sleeping will be hell for a while,” she warned.

John couldn’t help his smile to turn tense. “Sleeping, right. I’ll be careful.”

He wasn’t doing much sleeping anyways, and especially not on his wound ever since he’d received it. It was as if touching it sent spark of dread directly to his brain.

But the tattoo would help. He was sure. Already when Audrey had begun carefully tracing on his skin the outline of it with the cap of a marker, to test his sensitivity, he had felt himself relax. As if covering his scar up could actually make it go away.

Who knew. Perhaps.

John took care of the tattoo for days, on his own, making sure it wouldn’t get infected and that it was healing right. He hid it beneath soft shirts and softer gauzes, under the bulk of his jumpers and the stiffness of his wound, until one day the bandage was ready to come off.

Some time, a couple of weeks after getting it, John was ready to show his heart.

He was already shirtless, his right hand hesitant as he fingered the edge of the gauzes tenderly, when he decided it was time.

Only a few minutes later he was standing in his room, facing the bed, cane nowhere in sight. He hadn’t felt this good since he’d limped in the tattoo parlor, a piece of paper folded in his hand like a secret to be revealed only to the right person. Thankfully, Audrey had been perfectly qualified for the job, and had executed superbly.

As John unwound the bandages covering the upper half of his chest, his hand slowly stopped shaking. He grew confident as the bottom lines of the tattoo came into view, the fresh ink stark even against his tanned skin, finally devoid of any irritation or redness.

He unwound the bandages, slowly, until they fell to the floor in a long white stripe, like a snake changing out of its dead skin. And John felt like that, too, almost reborn.

On his shoulder, over the scar of the entrance wound caused by the bullet that had ended his career, was a heart. It was anatomically correct, all black, cream and grey lines, much like the illustrations in John’s old medical textbooks; all it was missing were numbered notes describing the different areas.

The design was simple, yet the detail of the shadows in the hollows of the ventricles, the roundness of the atrii, the curves of the aortas. The shading was delicate, like old pencil marks on once white paper handled for too long.

Then, departing from the arteries, aortas and venae cavae, with a splash of colour, several thin, pale green lines ran up his shoulder, appearing like drops of watercolour left to drip down along his skin. They climbed up to the top of John’s shoulders, and he turned around as if to follow them.

Suddenly even more colour appeared, over the scar of his exit wound, on the even bigger and more gnawed portion of flesh. It appeared in the form of bright red poppies, the design delicate, as if the flowers had bloomed from drops of red ink falling into the water. The watercolour style faded into frayed lines, as if dissolving into John’s skin, becoming part of his blood other than his flesh.

The doctor was looking at the heart in the mirror, so enraptured that he was startled by the warm hand coming to rest on his good shoulder. He turned his head around to meet James’s eye, immediately melting into his touch as he noticed the soft smile on his lover’s lips.

“It’s even better than I thought it would be,” the major admitted, his eyes running all along the lines of John’s face, down to the lines of ink on his skin, and his smile grew a bit. “Definitely better.”

John chuckled. “Audrey was very loyal to your design, you know. Didn’t change a thing.”

James hummed thoughtfully, his good arm wrapping around John’s waist as his other one, barely functioning, remained limp at his side, the flaming phoenix tattooed along his bicep seeming to ripple with the slight movement. John reached to grip James’s bad wrist gently, his fingers stroking the curling tail feathers of the bird as they wrapped around the soldier’s scarred forearm. “We knew how talented she was already,” he whispered softly.

James nodded and leaned down to press their foreheads together. “I hope it will give you peace, like yours did for me. Still does, really.”

John let his eyelids flutter closed, taking a deep breath. He still had some nightmares, and he was still limping, but he did feel better. He felt even more loved by James than usual. After a moment of thought, John opened his eyes and smiled.

“Yes, I think it will. After all, it’s your heart.”

James flushed slightly, his lips curled into a smile as they met John’s in a sweet kiss.

“Romantic sap…”

“Mmh, true. But it’s only because I love you.”

“I love you too. After all, you’ve made me rise from my ashes.”

“Who’s the romantic sap, now?” John laughed softly, his eyes crinkling with good humour.

James’s smile was radiant when he kissed John again, so bright that it tasted like hope. For the both of them.


End file.
